Reversal
by bmw.remixed
Summary: Ulquiorra finds himself in a bit of a predicament. Grimmjow's more than happy to help. ::Grimmjow,Ulquiorra::


I normally don't post this early after setting it up on LJ, but after all the positive feedback (on the first day! ), I couldn't help but indulge.

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**Reversal**

**By bmwremixed**

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"So, what happened to you?"

Ulquiorra turned to find the owner of that lazy drawl, Grimmjow, leaning against the whitewashed wall, one arm supporting his weight, the other against his hip, grinning like a cat after a particularly filling meal – or about to get one. "You complained when he was shoving his dick down your throat or somethin'?"

The forlorn looking Arrancar glared at Grimmjow coolly, not bothering to grace his crude remark with a response – there was no reason to humor such _despicable_ creatures.

"Now, now, don't tell me you don't know how," mocked Grimmjow at Ulquiorra's silence.

As Grimmjow stood there, he thought he saw Ulquiorra's eyes narrowed slightly, but it could've just been a trick of the light. His grin grew more feral, and a strange bubbling sensation twisted delightfully in his chest, right above his Hollow hole. He had woken up that day expecting it to be like any other – and now _this – _it was like being given a early Christmas present. Chances when things weren't going in Ulquiorra's favor were few and far between, and this, right now, was one of those. Grimmjow wasn't going to let the chance pass him by.

Who said he wasn't economic?

"I had failed to meet Aizen-sama's expectations."

Grimmjow found himself bristling slightly at Ulquiorra's nonchalant attitude, when he spoke his voice was a bit more vehement than he would've like.

"Still calling him 'Aizen-sama'? You're pathetic."

But when he looked Ulquiorra in the eye again, he was smiling – or rather, grinning – any existing tension melting away into familiar overconfidence.

"Interesting though. Never thought I'd live to see the day Aizen would kick his little bitch out into the rain."

Ulquiorra only fixed him with that same blank stare before turning and heading in the opposite direction.

"Don't walk away from me without an answer, _Schiffer-san_," he said as he lunged out and grabbed the smaller Arrancar by the shoulder, roughly spinning him around.

Ulquiorra's green eyes darkened dangerously and he grabbed the offending limb; his grip deceptively firm for his slim fingers." Unless you are in the mood to part with that arm _again_, please remove your hand from me."

"You're absolutely hilarious, you know that?" Grimmjow's grin grew to maniacal proportions and he cackled, the noise rupturing from his throat like shrapnel, scattered through the empty hall, deflecting around chaotically. He grabbed the wrist of the hand that was currently wrapped around his own, grasping _it_ with equal force and tearing it away, jerking the body it was attached to roughly. He brought it up to his face, pretending to find the neatly kept dark nails suddenly intriguing.

"What are you now?" He mused lazily, "_Ci__ento cuatro_? One-hundred-and -four? Now there's a fucking mouthful."

"Is there a point to your senseless banter?" Ulquiorra asked, his breath like an icy appendage dragged across Grimmjow's chest.

Grimmjow glanced down, noting Ulquiorra's impassive discontempt.

_The little fucker still had the nerve to look down on him._

Without warning, he swung the arm he grasped with all his strength, neglecting the rest of body, smashing it into the wall. The white stone crumbled under the impact, releasing a cloud of white dust, and flooding the room with the sound of the collapse. The only sound Grimmjow could hear, however, was the slight grunt of pain from the littler Arrancar.

He towered over Ulquiorra, whose expression stubbornly refused to change, and crushed his free arm into the other's pale throat, eyes flickering over the broken shards of white stone jabbing into equally white flesh, slowing tainting it an angry red. Grimmjow was past caring what Ulquiorra said or did now; the only that mattered was that the little prick was finally getting what he deserved and Grimmjow was all too happy to give it to him.

Leaning in, high on a mix of adrenalin and the sight of the dark haired arrancar covered with the barest sheen of sweat, he whispered slowly in the other's ear, and waited for the words to sink in,

"I was just thinking it wasn't as catchy as _El Cuatro._"

Ulquiorra stiffened slightly at the taunt; the action didn't escape the other Arrancar's notice.

"I accept the rank Aizen-sama bestows upon me, whatever it may be."

"Do you really?"

"Your opinion is meaningless to me."

Grimmjow laughed dimissively, tracing one hand languidly down the dark seams of Ulquiorra's prude uniform, toying with the zipper before jerking it roughly downwards and snagging the teeth in the process. The cloth parted, revealing Ulquiorra's pale, translucent skin, stretched taughtly over a network of bruise-blue veins. Between his collarbones lay the hollow hole, now fading and fraying at the edges. Grimmjow's fingers hooked themselves over the rim, and slowly traced around the edges of the opening, lingering for a while on the blurred parts of edge.

Ulquiorra's legs suddenly twinged uncomfortably when Grimmjow pressed against a particularly ravaged spot. To his dismay, as it became uncomfortable to support his weight with his legs, he could sense the blue eyes of the taller Arrancar laughing at him. He refused to look at Grimmjow directly in the eye, opting instead to focus on the whitewashed wall over the taller man's shoulder. He refused to acknowledge the breath he could feel rustling in his hair; refused to flinch at the fingers drawing nearer and nearer to where the gothic four once stood; refused to show any weakness to such _trash_.

"Wipe that self important look off your face, you pasty little fuck," Grimmjow sneered, "I know what you're thinking, self-appeasing bastard that you are. But things are different now."

Ulquiorra finally turns and stares at him, the faintest of stirrings in his empty glass-like eyes.

"You're the trash now, Ulquiorra."

Grimmjow steps away from the dark haired hollow, his smirk edged with the barest hint of condescendence.

"Are you going to kill me?" The question was asked without emotion.

"That wouldn't be entertaining."

Trepidation creeped stealthily into Ulquiorra's mind. The gothic tattoo of the Espada wasn't only a representation of an arrancar's strength, it became an arrancar's strength. Espada learned to use it to enforce their wishes, used it for protection, used it for self-satisfaction – in more ways than one – and most practically, used it to allow themselves the privilege of the Gran Rey Cero.

It wasn't as if Privaron were too afraid to use the Gran Rey, it was that they _couldn't_. When Aizen scraped off the layer of hierro that held the tattoo, he also took away something from the arrancar. Something that made the emptiness inside that defined a hollow more ravenous; something that put the steel in the armor-like skin, something that made them feel almost human for a few moments in a day… _something that Grimmjow had and he didn't._

The sudden rush of cold air on his heated skin followed by an equally sudden burst of reiatsu startled Ulquiorra from his thoughts.

"_Grind, Pantera."_

Grimmjow had leapt away only to extract his zanpakutou and release its power. Bulky, well muscled limbs became streamlined, coiled for action. Hands and feet were reduced to thin but powerful caricatures of themselves, each digit ending in a deadly talon. A newly formed tail, plated with the same hierro that now took on an armor-like appearance, thrashed listlessly behind him like a banner in a angry gale.

Ulquiorra reached for his own blade, instincts still honed enough to prepare for an unexpected battle. Before his fingers had even wrapped around the hilt, he found himself once again face to face with those laughing blue eyes. Except now they were more sinister, more streamlined, more reminiscent of a painstakingly whet blade..

He returned the stare coolly, as if nothing had changed, as if his whole existence hadn't been distorted, and as if he was still in control.

A strangely thin hand, crackling with barely restrained energy, the claws glistening in the artificially lit hallway (_everything was artificial here –the light, the heirarchy, their existence, _, Ulquiorra surprised himself by thinking), edged closer towards where his heart would be. With a few casual flicks, the claws had reduced his uniform to shreds, revealing the ugly scar that marred his otherwise porcelain skin.

"What do you want?"

Grimmjow flashed his canines in an answer. His tail twitched and his muscles tensed in anticipation. Ulquiorra was a usually the pillar of stoicism, confident and unmovable, an obstruction in a path. For Grimmjow, seeing the cracks – no matter how minute – slowly blossoming; it was simply _delicious._

He laid his hand over the marred flesh, taking in the feel of Ulquiorra's ruined perfection. Flexing slowly, Grimmjow unsheathed each claw individually, pricking Ulquiorra's heirro tantalizingly with razor sharp tips, feeling the mockery of breath underneath hitch in response. He spread his hand, his already large span barely encompassing the whole of the scar. The other hand wound itself through thick black locks and wrapped itself around Ulquiorra's pale throat for the second time that day.

"To take what's rightfully mine." Grimmjow said, bending low and speaking into Ulquiorra's chest, murmuring so low and incoherent that it was almost a purr.

"Get off of me."

Grimmjow laughed wildly, the sound reverberating against Ulquiorra's collarbone.

"I don't think you're in much of a position to be making demands, _Privaron._"

And he struck.

Ulquiorra watched, as though disconnected, as the hand on his chest suddenly flashed with reiatsu. The kuckles contracted, and with claws grappling towards the palm, he watched as Grimmjow ripped through his hierro. He could only stare dumbly at the gaping hole in his chest, the raggest strips of flesh, and the shattered shards of bone sticking through the wound, brain refusing to register the injury.

_Impossible, _Ulquiorra thought, he could not be wounded, he wasn't bleeding, he wasn't dying – well, that's because he can't die, he's already died once and once was enought – and so therefore following that train of thought he would've been dead had he been alive because there was Grimmjow in front of him – grinning that infernal grin – with his hand wrist deep in his chest and going _deeper deeper deeper_ – crushing bones and flesh and blood made of nothingness - digging around where his heart would be --

The pain sneaked up from behind and siezed him, causing his vision to pepper with starbursts and firebursts and god knows what other disturbing hallucinations he saw as his neurons fired confusedly. Hot, sticky liquid burned against his corpse-like flesh as it surged along his abdomen, only adding to his discomfort. He could taste it, gushing onto his toungue His muscles clenched and unclenched uncontrollably, and a strangled sounding gasp wrenched its way from between his lips.

Grimmjow, eyes glowing through his newly wrought mask of blood, was still grinning.

As the first onslauge of pain faltered, feelings of disgust welled inside Ulquiorra. At Grimmjow's act, and at himself for showing such weakness. With difficulty, he reached up and grasped the limb in his chest, the simple act itself causing his vision white out.

Grimmjow merely flicked his hand away. "Fucking pathetic."

Ulquiorra looked up at Grimmjow – the other Arrancar had always been taller than him, but it was only now that their height difference was so significant.

"You're such a brute, Grimmjow," he gasped, "Severing my spiritual link would have be—"

"I said I wasn't going to kill you!" Grimmjow raged, his voice scratchy and distorted with his transformation, "That's right, you don't fucking listen to anyone besides Aizen and yourself. That attitude might've been just fucking dandy as Aizen's bitch, but I don't take shit like that."

With a sickening squelch, he pulled his hand out from the wound, causing the Ulquiorra's nerves to ignite again. Grimmjow raised his bloodied hand until it hung between the two, rivulets of blood running down his arm to splatter and stain his uniform and floor. Slowly, he began to lick at the blood and scraps of meat hanging onto his arm, a contemplative look on his face, as if testing the taste of it.

"You're detestable," Ulquiorra barely managed to grit out.

Grimmjow glanced down, raising one eyebrow to contemplate the sorry sight in front of him. Ulquiorra's emerald eyes were clouded with bloodloss – but even so, still retained a sence of audacity. Grimmjow scowled; the bastard still had the nerve to look down on him – ripped up like he was now. He was going to make sure it wasn't going to happen again.

"I prefer the term well-prepared," said Grimmjow cheekily, "Can't have ya surpassin' me again." When he released the other Arrancar's chin, Ulquiorra let his head slump down with no resistance.

"You know, you're a lucky little bastard."

"How so?" the other Arrancar said said without looking up, a wry twinge struggling in his tone.

Ulquiorra had one hand pressed on top of the gaping wound, trying in vain to staunch the flow. His shoulders were slumped. Grimmjow could feel the smaller Arrancar settling his weight unconsciously against himself.

"Il Forte and Di Roy and the others – they didn't have it so good. Didn't have hands there."

"So?"

"It was a lot messier."

A finger teased the frayed skin, tracing patterns in the drying blood.

"When that fucking heals – if it fucking heals – it's going to leave one hell of a scar. That's just there to remind you I ripped you open once, and I'm not afraid to take it further next time."

The grin spread even further.

"All of those who become part of my Fraccion have one."

The revelation hit Ulquiorra like close range Cero. He blinked slowly, as a mix of strange and unfamiliar emotions ran through him – a flash of anger, a tint of fear, and a lot of annoyance.

"You are deeply mistaken if you thi—"

"Just be glad I got here first. Noitora's got it in for you, and I don't even want to _think_ about what the Octava wants to do." Grimmjow closed the gap between the two of them that had been wavering ever since he accosted Ulquiorra earlier. He pushed himself against the smaller Arrancar, feeling the warm blood smearing on his armor and seeping into the crevasses. His tail curling around Ulquiorra's leg, he purred softly, blowing into the other's ear, "Especially with a pretty little specimen like _you_."

With one fluid motion, Grimmjow pulled away and resealed his sword again, fading back into his more human-like form. Suddenly finding himself lacking support, Ulquiorra crumpled into a heap on the floor, exposing the dark stain on the wall behind him.

Grimmjow watched the spectacle languidly, all the while looking pleased with himself. He gave scene a final cursory glance, committing it to memory detail for detail. Finally, Grimmjow reached down and hauled the half coherent Ulquiorra onto his shoulder with one arm, ignoring the bodily fluids seeping through onto his shoulder, staining his outfit irreparably.

"Where are you taking me?" Ulquiorra managed to croak out over his unflattering position.

Grimmjow turned his head around and flashed a grin. Ulquiorra could swear he saw a light behind the other man's eyes.

"To have some fun," he said simply.

It wasn't the most eloquent statement, Grimmjow realized, but Grimmjow wasn't the type to give a rat's ass about eloquence when he was excited.

And he was very, _very_ excited.

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**Start: **2.26.07  
**End: **9.5.07

Comments and Criticism are welcome!


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